Heaven Sent
by Psyche Eros
Summary: Who could have ever guessed that you could return from your future to save your own past?


**A/N:**

**This story is somewhat based on "The Flat-Brimmed Hat" by Nancy Etchemendy. I wrote half of this the same day I read that story-take note, I **_**wrote**_** it, like, manually. I did it during class (don't follow my bad example, kiddos, it'll get you no where xP ), so it took me a couple of days to finish. I really like how it turned out, because it's random in away that made my friend (who I test my fan fics on) go WTF, which is kinda the reaction I was aiming for. Oh, and the fact that there's no pairing here, which is a first for me, so if sweet loving what you were looking for, whoopsie. wrong fic.**

**Also, If some events in the story confuse you at first, just keep reading. I swear it will make sense if you read all the way through.**

**For the record, this is my longest oneshot so far. **

**Anyway, enjoy, and drop me a review! :]**

* * *

"I am one of the few people who ever met L as L. When and how I met him…  
This is the single most valuable memory I have."

—**Mello, The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases by NisiOisin**

* * *

_He drove on until he reached the aged stone remains of an old church. He parked inside, meaning to move on to the next part of his plan, when an unexplainable pain erupted in his chest. He clutched at it instinctively, eyes widening in realization of what was happening… _

_His life began to play in his mind's eye, going through good times and bad, regrets, triumph, defeats… It stopped on the day where it all started, on that one morning when the sun seemed like it wasn't going to shine ever again, when he had made up his mind to end it all…_

_The memories stopped, everything was over, and all was dark._

_Suddenly, he opened his eyes and he was _there_, just beyond a familiar gate. The last time he had been here was in 1997. He squinted. Through the fog, he could make out a faint silhouette perched precariously on the old mansion's roof._

**~o~**

Mihael was on the roof.

Each breath sent a little puff of mist from his mouth, and he wrapped his arms around himself. His breathing was fast, and so was his heartbeat, but the rest of the world seemed to move in a tantalizingly slow motion. The sun wouldn't be up for a while, not that it would make much difference—England was perpetually gloomy nowadays. Mihael knew that it might rain any second now, and maybe then the shingles would get slick and just make him slip off. He backed away from the ledge; if he was going to go through with this, he would because he had meant to. Not because he _slipped._

He looked around again, anxious. He wouldn't have very much time left if he kept dawdling. Sooner or later, his sure-to-be drunk father would come stumbling around the corner, see Mihael on the roof, and yell at him 'til Kingdom come; then Mihael's bottom would be sore for days on end because of a sound beating. He would be lucky if a beating was all he got, though. He shuddered at the thought.

_Jump, _he whispered to himself. _Jump now._

Mihael figured it was high enough. The mansion had always been way too large for just three occupants, but now that there were only two, it seemed like there wasn't enough room. He would always be found, no matter how he tried to hide, so he this time he'd make sure to be found as a sorry splat beside his mother's abandoned petunias. That was if he ever got around to making the leap.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, kid."

Taken aback by the sudden voice, Mihael looked down. For a moment, his heart leapt madly into his throat; the figure looked so much like his father. The blonde hair, the startling blue eyes—then he realized that this man had none of the funny stubble on his jaw or the growing potbelly; instead, what appeared to be a horrid scar ran down the left side of his face. The man's piercing gaze was set on Mihael, and the latter didn't budge but stared back defiantly. The stranger did nothing but reach into his dark-red, fur-trimmed coat and pull out a rectangular bar wrapped in foil. A crinkle, a crunch.

"I said get down. What good would _that_ do, huh?"

Mihael didn't know how the man had entered without any notice, and this thought infuriated him. He found his voice again. "Shut up! Who the hell do you think you are? How did you get in here? I could start a right good racket and wake everyone, you know, and you'd be mincemeat."

"There's not a soul in that house and you know it," said the man indifferently with his American accent. "So just get down from there before _I_ start a racket."

Mihael had no idea how this man had known he was lying, but a certain pull just made him do as he was told. Still eyeing the man suspiciously, he climbed down the side of the house where the ivy had grown thick; that was where the ladder was. He then walked over to the trespasser.

"Who are you?"

"…I'm called Mello. Without the 'w.'"

Mihael's nose wrinkled slightly. Americans had such outlandish names. "How did you get in?"

"Does it matter? I got in."

Mello started walking towards the gate, as if to leave. But before he got out, he turned around again. "What are you just standing there for? Don't you want to get out of here?"

Though still skeptic, the word _leaving_ stirred something in Mihael. He followed the elder's lead, not as gracefully clambering over the wrought iron gates (for they were always locked), almost falling off the other side, but he managed to make it down in one piece. Mello was already rounding the block. Mihael ran after him.

That was how it went for a while. The two walked—well, one set off at a brisk pace and the other kept up somehow. It was silent; the early morning fog had not quite lifted, making it chilly. Mihael, donned only in a thin black sweater and cotton pants, had been thinking for a while that he might have been kidnapped and just led around in circles. _Stupid, _he spat inwardly. But he found later on that he didn't care. As long as he was getting away from the house, his cold, stiff limbs and rumbling stomach were a small price to pay.

After twenty more minutes of walking, Mihael had already lost count of how many avenues they had passed, how many blocks they had gone. His lips were chapped and he was numb from the cold; he was out of patience too, but something about Mello, who was still leading the way, made him hold in his normally explosive temper.

At last, they came to a halt. They were in front of a quaint café of sorts. They entered. Mihael didn't recognize his surroundings; he had never been in this part of town before.

His English mother passed away when he was four, and ever since then, every second of his life was all about keeping out of his father's sight. There hadn't been much difference when she was alive though; she dedicated most of her time going about the house, working to placate her demanding, quick-tempered, and violent Russian husband. She never dared disobey him even though he was leeching off _her_ fortune. She was always so scared that he would hurt her precious Mihael. Of course, when she died, her son spent three years fending for himself.

So no, there were never any pleasant family picnics or trips to town.

A pretty, young girl with her dark curls framing her heart-shaped face approached the table Mihael and Mello occupied. She wore a lacy apron, a pencil was tucked behind her ear, and she seemed sleepy, but she seemed glad to have customers this early in the morning.

"What will we be having today?" she asked in a honeyed tone.

"Just coffee for me. The kid gets a plateful of… Uh, you have French toast? Good, he'll have that with some hot chocolate."

She wrote this all down, then gave them a once-over. "Brothers?"

Mello glanced at her. "You could say that."

The waitress flounced away to get their meal. After a few moments, she came back with the tray. "Enjoy, boys."

Mihael fell upon his breakfast as quickly as a starving wolf pup, and he devoured it in much the same way. Mello drank his coffee and occasionally snapped off pieces of his snack from earlier, which Mihael now knew to be chocolate. The latter took the silent time to observe his companion and noticed a rather odd thing; the waitress's comment had brought it to his attention. Mello had sandy blonde hair that was just past his shoulders; exactly the same as Mihael's, except his looked straighter and cut in ragged layers. The eyes, too, reminded Mihael of his reflection. He noticed too, that Mello's hands kept frequenting the silver crucifix of a scarlet rosary that hung around his neck, gripping it tightly. What Mihael found strange was not this habit, but the rosary. His mother had one just like it.

It was more than peculiar; it was disturbing, but it had a mystifying effect as well. After a few more minutes of silence, the boy couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

"Alright, what's going on?" he demanded. "Why are you helping me out, and who are you, really? I want answers."

Mello held up a leather-clad hand to stem the flow of questions.

"I told you who I am. Mello, remember?"

He said nothing more, and it infuriated Mihael.

"You're probably some kind of twisted up pedophile. From the looks of it, you're on the run. You kidnapped me for money. Well, sorry to tell you, but my family's got none of that now."

Mello's eyes lit up with what may have well been amusement. "I didn't kidnap you; you went along willingly. I'm no pedo, either, and you're not getting any answers if you don't answer my questions first." He paused. "How old are you? About seven, from the looks of it, right?"

Mihael didn't reply at once, but he nodded eventually. "Turning eight soon."

"And had I not come along, would you have jumped off the roof of your house?"

He looked downward, but nodded again.

"Ah, so that's why I'm here…" Mello muttered. There was an exasperated sigh. "You know, had you jumped. You wouldn't have died. It really isn't that high. You might have broken a few arms and ribs and stuff, sure, but you'd still be alive. Only in worse condition. What would you have done then?"

A flustered blush dusted Mihael's cheeks. He swirled his fork around in the remaining syrup on his plate and said nothing.

Mello was gazing intently at the dark contents of his mug. It was like he was about to say something that pained him to do so.

"Someone once told me," he began carefully, voice low, "…that if you can't win the game, if you can't solve the puzzle, then you're nothing but a loser." Mello peered at Mihael from above the rim of his cup. "The person who said that… I never really took his words into account until recently. He was right. If you don't face your problems, nothing's going to happen. Running away never helps; you'll have to find a way through sooner or later. Took me a while to learn, myself. But whatever life chucks your way, you just face it headlong, kid. Only you can decide for yourself, but running away is never the answer."

Mihael bit his lip and banged his fork down on the tabletop. "You can't say that because you don't know what you're talking about. You don't even have any idea what I've been through!"

"I—"

"No!" he yelled angrily. "Don't say you understand! You don't! You can't! You, or anybody else; you _never_ will!"

"…Don't worry, I got this," Mello told the waitresses and cashier who were all looking worried. He turned back to Mihael, and his voice was still low as ever. "Listen, will you? I _do_ know what you're going through, probably more than anyone else ever will. It's hard to believe, but I really do." He stopped, hesitant for a second. "Let's just say that I know you but you don't know me, and that we're closer than you think."

Mihael was incredulous, and he tried to look for any signs of deceit in that face across from him. The blue eyes glimmered with something unidentifiable, but they were honest. Something compelled him to believe Mello, and he did. He sat back down.

The elder took another chocolate bar from the depths of his jacket and slid it towards Mihael. "It'll help settle your nerves."

It remained untouched, though.

"None of what you said makes sense," Mihael mumbled. "I might only be seven, but I know that I'm not as stupid as other kids my age."

"I never thought you were," was the reply.

"Well then, I want a straight answer," he continued. "Why did you bring me here, of all places?"

Mello shrugged. "This place is well known for its sweets. Especially the strawberry shortcake."

Mihael shook his head, unsatisfied with this puzzling response. "I meant, _what's going on?_ Why do you even care about me?"

That intense gazed was fixed upon him again. "Like it or not, your business is my business. Let's leave it at that."

"I said I wanted straight answers!"

"You're getting them as straight as they come."

"No, I'm _not!_"

"Look!" Mello hissed, raising his voice for the first time. "I'd give you answers if I could, but I'm about as clueless as you are. All I know is, I was driving a truck somewhere _far_ away from here, I parked, and then suddenly I wind up in front of your house. That's where we met, and I just had to take you here, alright?"

Mihael sensed that he wasn't going to get much more out of this, so he resigned that matter. His inquisitive nature made him interrogate some more, though. "What happened to your face?"

The corners of Mello's mouth twitched slightly. "It isn't a birthmark, that's for sure." One hand traveled to his face in recollection. "It's a burn mark."

"Sounds nasty. But how did you burn your face?"

"Not just my face. It goes down my arm and a bit across my chest and back. What happened wasn't pretty, that's for sure." He grinned sadistically. "Explosion."

Mihael's eyes were saucers. "Ouch?"

Mello chuckled. "You might find out for yourself one day."

"Why? I won't be insane enough to be playing around with bombs. I'm not like you."

Mello just kept grinning.

The next question came. "Where are you from?"

"Here and there. Grew up here in good old England, and then went to America when I was about fifteen."

"All by yourself? Why?"

"Yeah, by myself. Stuff came up."

"What kind of stuff?"

A serious look was on Mello's face then. "Stuff that made me decide that I couldn't and didn't want to live under someone else's shadow for the rest of my life."

Mihael remembered his father all of a sudden. The old coot was probably yelling the house down by now, calling for his son to fetch him an icepack, or just collapsed on the front porch. _That life's over, _he thought. _I'm not under his shadow anymore._ _I'm not going back._

"I wonder what's going to happen to me now," he said softly, staring at his lap.

A crimson rosary was slipped around his neck. Mihael looked up in faint surprise and found Mello looking at him, his expression kind of sad.

"You'll do alright, kid, don't worry. Don't let anyone get to you or put you down. Don't give up, always use your head, don't regret. Just make sure that every single second of your life will be worth watching when it flashes before your eyes, and you'll be fine. You just promise me that, now."

"…I promise."

"Then you'll do alright."

Azure eyes met each other, and for the briefest moment, Mihael detected some sort of familiarity in the older pair. Some kind of grief flashed within them. A hand ruffled his hair, like Mello was trying to convey something but couldn't do it with words.

Mihael broke the contact.

"I… um, I'll just go use the loo," he muttered. He stood and walked off, but halfway to the restroom he turned back around to face his companion. "Will you still be here when I come back?"

Fear and uncertainty were, for once, openly displayed on the seven year-old boy's face, looks belying the intelligence underneath.

Mello drained the last of his coffee and checked the watch on his wrist. "Maybe. Now scoot."

"Okay," Mihael said, looking a little crestfallen. "In any case, it was nice meeting you, Mello without a 'w.'"

Mello gave a stiff nod and watched the boy close the door behind him.

"Nice seeing you again, Mihael."

**~o~**

Having relieved himself, Mihael exited the restroom in a bit of a hurry, hoping that Mello would still be sitting at their table in that "I own this place" manner of his. There was no such luck, however. The café was once again empty save for him and its staff. He approached one of them.

"Excuse me, but the man who was with me earlier; did he leave?"

The same waitress who had served them earlier gave a shake of her head. "Sorry cookie, I didn't see. But if he left you here, he'll probably come back. Why don't you just take a seat right over there and wait for him, hmm?"

Very much doubting that Mello would return, Mihael dejectedly trudged back to the table nevertheless. He stared out the window, a sinking feeling beginning to grow in the pit of his stomach. The fog had gone a bit, and a few people were already going about their business, some rushing along on the sidewalk, greeting one another as they passed. Cars drove by, and Mihael watched them, wondering where they were headed—_where am __**I**__ headed?_—when a sleek black one parked up in front of the café.

An elderly man in a casual suit and jacket with a fedora atop his head got out of the driver's side. The passenger's side opened as well, and out came a most curious-looking young man. He couldn't have been more than ten years older than Mihael; he wore faded jeans and a thin, white, long-sleeved shirt. He didn't look cold at all. He was comfortable enough to have gone barefoot. A shock of inky hair that had never seen a comb crowned an astonishingly pale face, the most interesting feature of which were the dark, bottomless eyes which held the beginnings of ashen circles underneath. Those same eyes met Mihael's for a second when the odd pair entered the café, before they moved elsewhere.

"Is this it, Watari?" the odd boy asked his butler-like companion. "The place you told me about with nice sweets?"

The older man, Watari, nodded and smiled with twinkling eyes. "Yes. They also have the best strawberry shortcake I have ever had the privilege to taste. Ah, Annabel, it's good to see you," he told the woman behind the counter before proceeding to order.

The teenager slouched over to where Mihael sat. "May I take this seat?"

Though he wasn't sure why the boy had chosen to sit with him when there were enough tables to go around, Mihael nodded. The boy leapt into his chair, settling in a weird position; all hunched up like an eagle perched on a branch, without the majesty of said bird. He stared at Mihael, making the latter a bit uncomfortable, but otherwise everything was silent between them. Finally, Watari came along with a waitress, trays of pastries and sweet things in their hands.

Mihael looked on in awe as the raven-haired boy munched his way through them all. Watari sipped his Earl Grey nearby, and still everything was quiet.

"There is a note," the boy said suddenly through a mouthful of Danish pastry.

"Sorry?" Mihael asked.

The boy only pointed a sugar-coated finger at a napkin that appeared to have handwriting on it. Mihael picked it up and read the hastily scribbled message:

_Sorry, I had to go. You'll be fine.  
Just remember everything I told you.  
-M  
PS: One can never go wrong with sweets._

Puzzled, Mihael just folded it up and tucked the note in his pants pocket.

"Is anyone coming for you, boy?" Watari asked him.

"…No," he replied. "I don't know. I had someone with me, and maybe he left me here for someone else to find, but I have no one and nowhere."

Watari and his young companion glanced at each other before the former smiled a kindly smile at Mihael. "Would you like to come along with us, then?"

"With you? Why?"

"Watari has a large house where he takes in children who, like you, have nowhere else to go," the other boy replied. "He raises us; I myself have been living there since the age of four."

All things considered, this didn't do much to earn Mihael's trust, but his interest was piqued enough. "You mean it's an orphanage."

"Not at all," the boy replied, licking his lips. "Wammy's House is… an institution; I suppose you can call it that. An institution for gifted children."

Mihael raised an eyebrow. "Seems more like the loony bin to me. I'm not crazy, I don't belong there."

"Oh, you belong there. But not because you're crazy. I can tell that you have something that qualifies you to stay. I have a knack for these things; I have never been wrong yet."

He struck Mihael as arrogant through his casualness. The blonde rolled his eyes. "What are you getting at?"

"You are a gifted child."

"Oh really," Mihael scoffed.

"Everyone is," the boy said. "Others just never acknowledge it. It's a sad thing."

"Are you gifted, then?"

The boy looked at him intently then, as if studying him or sizing him up. Mihael once again had to suppress the urge to squirm under that gaze; instead, he looked back with matching intensity.

"Yes," said the boy after a while. "I am."

It was said in a casual way once again, as if he said it every day, but Mihael now thought that it might not have been arrogant at all. It was probably true; the black-rimmed onyx eyes were sharp and full of intelligence.

Watari, who had been observing the conversation with some enjoyment, decided that now was a good time to interject.

"Have you made up your mind then, young man?" he asked Mihael. "Will you still be waiting for your friend's return, or will you be coming home with us?"

_Home._ Mihael's heart thumped wildly in his chest.

"There will be chocolate there, you know," the teenager said suddenly. Mihael noticed that he was eying Mello's chocolate bar, which up until that moment had been abandoned on the table.

"I really don't care much for sweets," he told the older boy. "You can have that if you like."

The older boy's eyes were impossibly wide now. "No, thank you. If it's yours, it's yours. I have my own stock back at Wammy's. But I don't understand how you can stand not eating it." He was still looking at the bar with an air of reverence. "One can never go wrong with sweets."

_One can never go wrong with sweets, _the note had said.

Suddenly, it was as if there was a light at the end of the unlit path. Never mind how strange the circumstances were, how nonsense it all was; somehow, everything fell into place. Mihael had never believed in fate until now; his mind was made up.

"…I'll go with you."

Watari beamed, and the other boy gave a little quirk of the lips that might have been a smile as well. He hopped off his seat. "We best be off then, it's quite a long ride from here." They made for the door.

Mihael's gaze swept around the little café once more, coming to rest on the lone chocolate bar, He quickly snatched it up and followed the other two.

**~o~**

In the car, Watari drove and the old boy sat up front. Mihael stayed in the back, next to the packages of dainty cakes and treats Watari had purchased for takeout before they left.

Mihael sat and listened to the kindly old man's description of their destination. A large building, an immense back yard, classes, two libraries, rooms for everyone, three square meals a day plus snacks… The eccentric young boy in the passenger's seat also threw in comments here and there to add to the account. In all honesty, it was making the seven year-old quite excited.

In the middle of telling Mihael about the soccer games the boys would play every Sunday afternoon, Watari recalled something.

"By the way, at Wammy's House, everyone's past is left behind. To start anew, things must be erased. Even names. You will have to go by an alias for the rest of your time there."

"An alias?" Mihael crossed his arms. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the chocolate bar they held, making him aware of it. Slowly, carefully, remembering the way it was done, he peeled off a little foil from one corner to reveal a brown square of the treat. He scrutinized it, thinking. "Let's see…"

A crinkle, a crunch.

The rich, delicious taste spread from the tip of his tongue and filled his entire mouth with its sweetness. For some reason, he suddenly felt stronger, renewed.

Mihael looked at the rosary that was dangling from his neck, and rolled the beads between his fingers. They had been worn smooth by time and use. He wondered how the religious item had fallen into that strange, scarred man's hands; he who had been responsible for opening a new door…

The boy who sat in front momentarily brought him down from his reverie. "So, have you thought of a new name?"

_New name, new home, new life, _Mihael thought.

"Mello," he said firmly, the answer coming smoothly as if it had been there all along. "My name is Mello. Without the 'w.'"

He gripped the crucifix of his rosary tightly and looked outside the car's open window. His breath hitched when he caught a glimpse of a young man in a dark red, fur-trimmed coat walking around a corner. Hoping to be noticed, he waved, and the man waved back; but then a second passed by and the man was nowhere to be seen.

**~o~**

"_Sent back from death so I could save my past self from dying?" Mello muttered to himself. "Makes no sense, but hey. After seeing notebooks that can kill people, I won't even question this anymore."_

_He had been wandering around, maybe several blocks, and was still walking when a sleek black car passed by him. Through an open window, someone waved, and there was a pair of young blue eyes flashed by. He waved back and smiled._

"_At any rate, I guess I'm done here," he told no one in particular. "Take me to wherever I belong."_

_And in the blink of an eye, he was gone._


End file.
